by JM Gryffyn
Memory assailed Will, and a devastating vision rose unbidden. Blood. Blood everywhere. Robert’s face and body smeared with it, his own hands coated with it. He had held his first lover in this same way, searching for something to stem the blood. But there had been nothing, and in the end he had pressed his hands against Robbie’s torn chest, shouting vainly for a medic. He had felt the man’s breathing cease beneath his palms, but he had not moved, not stirred an inch until long after the shooting had stopped. In the deafening silence that followed, Will had vowed to himself he would never love again. He had broken that vow.
Brock’s breathing continued steadily, but the blue eyes remained closed, his body sagging in Will’s arms. Down the way someone was screaming. Anguished shouts from a familiar voice yelling, “No, no, no!” Clutching Brock close, Will staggered to his feet and ran toward the screams.
Timothy knelt on the cobblestones in front of the pub, his body arched protectively over something lying on the ground. He turned to look up as Will came near. His hands fluttered helplessly on Lena’s body.
“Oh God, Willie,” Timothy cried out. “Do something!”
Placing Brock beside him on the cobbled walkway, Will knelt over Lena. She was unconscious, but he could find no wound, no blood at all.
“Where was she hit?” he called to his brother, shouting so as to be heard over the din of voices. Christ, what had the bastards done? He searched frantically for a wound as Timothy knelt at her side gripping her hand. Lena took one quivering breath, and then she stopped breathing.
For one terrifying instant, Will imagined it was Brock’s breathing that had ceased, and he gasped out a sob. Then Brock groaned softly and relief flooded through Will. He stilled his efforts to help Lena and looked into his brother’s face.
“I’m so sorry,” he said softly, and Timothy broke into anguished sobs, pulling his wife’s lax body into his arms. It was then that Will saw the blood matting the tiny wound at the back of the woman’s skull, the entry wound of a bullet that had not exited. Will closed his eyes, then opened them quickly.
Lena was dead, but Brock was alive. He turned to his lover, meeting Brock’s bleary gaze.
“Do not worry, a ghrá,” he whispered, smoothing back the tangled curls from Brock’s face. “Everything will be fine.” He only wished it could be true.
“TO HOSPITAL,” Will growled when they were back at the Crossley.
Brock shook his head, then grimaced at the pain. “No, William. Hospital is where people go to die. I’ll be fine.”
Will turned to look where Timothy sat silently in the back seat, holding the body of his dead wife in his arms.
“A’right then, what do we do now?” Will asked, starting the car. “Where is it you want to take her, Timothy? Have you a room somewhere?”
When Timothy did not answer, Will turned to Brock.
“What are the customs of your people, Brock? What do we do now?”
Brock looked up at him with tears filling his eyes. “A dead body is mochadi to us Gypsies, Will. Unclean, impure. Let Timothy follow his own customs. Let him follow his heart.”
“We’ll take her home then. Bury her in the family graveyard,” Will said softly.
Timothy breathed a yes in response, and then he ducked his head and began to sob.
Will drove his father’s car through the dark countryside away from the madness and mayhem of Dublin, the silence broken only by the sound of a man weeping.
IT RAINED the day of the funeral. Brock sat on an outcropping and watched the proceedings. In front of him James, Timothy, and a small group of Timothy’s friends held vigil as Lena’s casket was lowered into the muddy pit. Behind him, on the plain where once stood the Traveller caravan, was nothing. His people had left that morning.
He’d said goodbye to his mother, and she had not shed a tear.
“I’ll see ye again, my son. Have no doubt of that,” Doreen had said, kissing his cheek tenderly, then handing him a small twist of silk. When she’d gone, he’d opened it to find a tiny bell, one of the ones she’d worn ’round her ankle for as long as he could remember.
The funeral party began to leave the grave site. As Brock watched, Will broke away from the crowd and crossed over to him. The rain abruptly changed from a gentle patter to a torrent. When Will stopped mere inches from him, Brock stood on tiptoe and took hold of the taller man’s shoulders and pulled him down into a fierce hug. They stood there a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, the rain pounding on their faces and backs and heads, drenching them, cleansing them of the horror of the night in Dublin. Finally, they walked together toward the big house.
BROCK stood in Will’s room in the manor house. It was huge, holding a bed and wardrobe, a stuffed chair, and a small table. There was a nightstand in the corner which held water. Brock shivered at such uncleanliness. No Traveller would use water that had been standing in a basin all day. It was mochadi, too easily polluted to be safe—it should be thrown away immediately after each use.
There would be many such things as this in the world he would share with Will. Things he didn’t know, things he found strange, unclean, and simply not his way. With a sigh, Brock sat down on the wide bed. He would go with Will. He had made up his mind days ago. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t frightened at the thought of how much his life was going to change.
He heard voices up through the floorboard, angry voices. Peter O’Sullivan, shouting again.
“What do you mean leave? Where is it you propose to go? Dublin? London? You’ll not escape violence in either of those places.”
Will’s response was low and muffled.
“America? Surely you jest. Only poor, landless fools go to America.” The elder O’Sullivan’s voice was loud and blustery.
“Call me a fool then. I’m going.” Will’s decisive words came clearly to Brock’s ears. He had not mentioned Brock, and he would not, for they had decided it would only complicate matters. Will had asked one of the maids to show Brock the way up the servant staircase to his room. And though the girl had looked askance at Brock in his damp clothes, she had done as she was bidden.
“What about this?” Peter continued, his voice gone shrill. “This place is your home. When I die, it will go to you. Have you no thought for this land and its people?”
“Give it to Timothy,” Will said dispassionately. “It cannot make up for his loss, but it will be something. I do not want it.”
“My God, man, are ye daft?” Peter sputtered, obviously unable to take it all in.
“That I am,” Will replied swiftly.
The dialogue continued downstairs, but father and son must have moved to another room, because it became indistinct. Brock flopped back on the bed, closed his eyes, and shut his mind against his own doubt and fears. He was asleep moments later.
TIMOTHY followed Will to the door of his bedroom. “You’re going because of him, aren’t you,” he said in a soft voice, peering in at Brock. It wasn’t really a question.
Will searched his brother’s face for any sign of censure or reproach but saw none. “I’m going because I have to. I’ve been approached by the RIC, Tim. Do you think I could accept their offer after what happened to us in Dublin?”
Timothy paled at the mention of that fateful night. “But those were Black and Tans, Will, not the RIC,” he protested weakly.
“Constabulary-led troops, under the same authority, brother. I’ll not have any part in what they are doing. I’ve fought one war. I have no stomach for another.”
“If you go to American with Brock, you’ll be fighting another kind of war.”
“They will think he’s my younger brother. Nothing more.”
“But he is more, is he not?”
“Yes. But dinnae worry your head about it. And know this, Timothy: I won’t forget ye. I pray you stay well, and that one day when your heart has healed, you find love once more. And, well, I’m sorry I’ll never see you again.”
“Ach,” Timothy said, and reaching
up, he hugged William hard. “Ó m’anam, may God go with you.”
“Likewise, a deartháir,” Will said. Then he turned and walked slowly away.
THE next day was overcast, the grey sky damp with the promise of more rain. Will wagged the two tickets under Brock’s nose, laughing at the eager excitement on his lover’s face. “It will take nearly three weeks to get to America on this old freighter, but it will conserve our money.”
“At least the money from the sale of my rings covered my ticket,” Brock commented anxiously, not for the first time.
“That and more,” Will reassured him as they started to walk up the gangplank. He was well aware that Brock worried about shouldering his share of the load when it came to money.
“Willie, Willie O’Sullivan,” a woman’s voice called out. Both Will and Brock halted, turning to see Ceara Kelly hurrying along the pier, waving frantically at them.
“I’m glad I caught you,” she said, breathlessly, her cheeks pretty and pink from her run.
“But why?” Will asked, frowning down at her. It made no sense to him, her being there. She owed him nothing, and this was no small thing.
Ceara looked away for a moment, then smiled up into his eyes. “Timothy planned to come, but Peter contrived something for him to do in Curragh, so I volunteered. You see, it is that I owe you something,” she said, as if she’d read his mind. “I would have married you, Will, because my father, my whole family, wished it of me. But I love another. Your leaving frees me, just as it does you.” That said, she shoved a thick packet of papers into his hand. “Your brother sends you this. And his best wishes.”
“Thank you,” Will said softly and bent to kiss her cheek. Then he put one hand on the small of Brock’s back and urged him toward the ship once more.
THEIR cabin was humid and cramped, and the sound of the water skimming along the outside of the bulkhead gave Will a queasy feeling as he stretched out on the lower bunk. It was only their second day at sea, but Brock was already stir-crazy and had gone above to get some fresh air. Content to stay below, Will pulled out the one book he had thought to bring. Before he got beyond a page or two, he heard Brock coming back down the corridor. If he hadn’t recognized the sound of his lover’s footsteps, he still would have known it was him by the faint jingle of a tiny bell he wore on a cord ’round his neck, a gift from his mother. Will smiled as Brock came in the door, his hair and clothing tousled by the wind.
“It’s starting to rain, and they were shooing everyone off the deck,” Brock explained, looking to where Will was stretched out on the bunk. Grimacing, he crossed the tiny cabin in a few steps and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“What?” Will asked.
“Someday I want to sleep with you on a wide bed, like the one in yer bedroom at your home.”
“That is no longer my home,” Will said seriously. “Wherever you are, that is my home.”
Brock gave a small, pleased smile and pulled his overshirt off. He nudged Will over and stretched out beside him, no small feat in the narrow ship’s bunk. Brock’s own bunk was actually attached to the wall above Will’s, but he had not used it. Instead, he had slept the night draped half over William, who had certainly not complained.
“What are you reading?” Brock asked, shifting as he tried to find a comfortable position.
“A book of poetry.”
“Poetry! But there’s a picture of an Indian on the page,” Brock exclaimed.
“You can’t read, can you?” Will cocked his head to look at the man snugged tightly up against him.
Brock made a self-deprecating noise. “Have you ever known a Traveller who could?” He studied the picture. “But I’d like to learn,” he added in a small voice.
Will planted a kiss on Brock’s temple and adjusted the book where he could hold it steady and still have one arm around his love. “Well then, as we have some time with nothing much to do, I guess I’ll teach you.”
“Later though, please,” Brock said with a shake of his head that made his unruly curls bounce. “Right now, will you just read the poem to me? It looks interesting.” He tilted his chin as a thought struck him. “Oh, Will, do you think we will see any Indians in America?”
“I doubt it,” Will said thoughtfully. “We’ll be landing in New York City. It’s a big place, bigger even than Dublin. Besides, from what I’ve heard, the Indians are all on reservations nowadays.”
“Perhaps a few live outside the city. I heard they’re a nomadic people, like Travellers.”
“Perhaps.” Will grinned and thumped Brock on his upturned nose. “Now, do you want to hear this poem or not?”
Brock reached out a finger and reverently touched the page with the illustration of an Indian boy. “Oh yes, please read it,” he breathed.
“The poem is called ‘Hiawatha’. It’s by an American man named Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It was first published in 1855,” Will patiently explained.
“No more yapping. Just read, William,” Brock commanded.
Will chuckled. “Whatever you say, a ghrá-sa. Whatever you say.”
Part 2
America
BROCK stood on the street corner, peering through the gathering gloom, praying Will would show up soon. He was tired and cold and more shaken than he cared to admit. He’d spent the day looking for a job, but so had a hundred-odd other men, some with far better credentials than he had. And there were certain things he would not do for money.
Without thinking, he put a hand up to rub his right eye and had to stifle a yelp. Shite, but it hurt. He just bet his eye was purpling nicely. The side of his face was scratched and stiff from where the bloody waster had shoved him up against the wall. The bastard hadn’t expected his swift move sideways, not to mention the sharp jab to the ribs. Then Brock had run like the wind. Ha, he’d legged it like a scared rabbit, more like. He’d left his attacker many long city blocks behind—
Brock bit his lip and resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.
Suddenly Will was there in front of him, appearing like an avenging angel out of the mist. He had a huge smile on his face, and with a cry of, “Little brother!” he enfolded Brock into his arms.
Brock let him, loving the sharp scent of Will’s sweat, the strength of his embrace, the comforting feel of warm, damp wool against his face.
Will lifted a hand to rub Brock on the head in an affectionate big-brotherly gesture, but he stopped in mid-movement. His brow drew down in a scowl. “What happened? Who did this to you?” he asked, taking Brock’s face between his two big hands.
As any little brother would, Brock wrinkled his nose and ducked away. “Ach, it’s nothing. Just a friendly scuffle,” he lied. He would tell Will the whole of things when they got to the safety of their room, but not now. “Come on now, if we don’t hurry, supper will be served and gone before we even get there.”
Will’s frown deepened, but he followed Brock without a word toward Mrs. Schaeffer’s boarding house, where they rented a room as the O’Sullivan brothers. It was a ruse they’d refined in the bowels of the steamship on the voyage over, as they marveled over the packet of papers Ceara had handed William at the bottom of the gangplank. Among them was Timothy’s own baptismal certificate, as good as a birth certificate, signed as it was by a priest of the Catholic Church. Being brothers meant they could touch each other as much as they liked, though it had to be contact full of tug and tussle. Brock didn’t mind, but sometimes he had to jostle Will to remind him to keep things rough and tumble.
Will was still scowling when they reached the boarding house. People were already gathering for supper, so they washed quickly at the outside pump, as Mrs. Schaeffer was a stickler for such things. Brock finished first, leaving Will scrubbing at his leather-dye stained hands. He slipped into his place across from Brock just as everyone bent their heads in prayer. It was another of Mrs. Schaeffer’s many rules; you had to be there for the blessing, or you didn’t get to eat. But she was a decent cook, if a bit stingy w
ith the meat. But tonight it was cabbage and corned beef, and there was plenty of the cabbage, if not the beef.
While he ate, Brock glanced up from his plate to see Will looking at him, a frown line etched between his ocean green eyes.
Before their trip across the Atlantic, Brock had not realized Will’s eyes were the exact color of a storm-tossed sea. Now he thought of it nearly every time he looked square into Will’s face.
He knew when most folk looked at Will all they saw was his handsome face, the breadth of his shoulders, and his military bearing. Due to these things, he’d had his choice between several jobs practically from the moment they’d stepped from the boat. But Will was so much more than a brawny body; he was smart as a whip. He’d been choosy and had waited a bit, waited and watched and learned—and then he’d taken a job at a shoe factory. A job with potential, he’d explained carefully, one where, given the right circumstances, he might be able to advance upward to management.
When supper was over, they retired to the room they shared. Will went in first and Brock trailed behind him. The moment the door was closed, Will turned and swiftly pushed Brock up against it.
“Who did this to you?” Will’s voice was low and gruff.
“Didn’t get his name,” Brock sassed.
Will growled low in his throat and went over to the basin of water. He got a flannel off the shelf and dipped it into the water. Brock’s protest was muffled against the washrag, but he held still as Will cleaned his face gently, carefully. He was trying hard to leave the old ways behind, but the practice of leaving water standing in a basin was one that still disturbed him. And a chamber pot was beyond reason; he’d rather get up and go outside in the pouring rain than use one.
“Ow,” Brock yelped when he’d had more than enough.
“Sorry, sorry.” Will sat down on the straight backed chair that was the only furniture besides the bed and the small chest that had a hole for the basin. “I could get you a new job at the factory,” he said softly. “Please let me.”